


The Bookshop Place (Part 1)

by Kass



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-21 17:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: For reasons he can’t explain, Aziraphale feels certain that this young man needs to read that book.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 84
Collections: Purimgifts 2020





	The Bookshop Place (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



Not a single customer has set foot in the bookshop today. Perhaps because it's pelting rain outside, and any pedestrians unlucky enough to be out in it are huddled beneath their umbrellas and moving as quickly as they can. Aziraphale is mildly surprised when the bell announces someone coming through the door.

The customer is drenched, naturally, and notices right away that he's dripping water on the rug. "Oh, no. I'm a mess. I don't want to get water on your books." He glances around the shop. "Is there somewhere I can put this raincoat...?"

He’s concerned for the books; that’s a good sign. Aziraphale's opinion of the young man brightens on the spot. "There's a coat rack down that aisle," he offers, pointing. 

The coat rack is not far from a comfortable cushioned chair, a stack of books, and a little endtable.

"This is exactly what I thought an antiquarian bookseller's in London would look like," the man murmurs to himself as he walks between the rows of shelves. 

On a hunch, Aziraphale miracles a few philosophy books to the top of the stack. 

He's rewarded with an inbreath of pleasure when the stranger reaches the coat rack, hangs up his wet things, and looks down at the stack of books. "Excuse me," the man calls, "Mister--"

"Fell," Aziraphale says, smiling to himself. It's funny because he didn't Fall. Of course no one knows that but the two of them.

"I can't believe this is just sitting here." There's reverence in the stranger's tone. "I want to look inside -- but this looks old -- I mean, really old -- wait, do you happen to have gloves I could put on?"

That settles it; his positive opinion of the gentleman has just been sealed. "I do indeed." Aziraphale brings a pair to the young man, who is sitting in the overstuffed chair beside the stack of books and the coat rack, looking dazed.

The gloves that Aziraphale keeps on hand for customers who want to examine old manuscripts are striking against the young man’s dark skin. As the man is working his hands into the gloves, he asks, "How old is this copy of dalālat al-ḥā’irīn?"

"Oh, almost as old as the text itself." Aziraphale smiles dreamily. Moshe ben Maimon had been a lovely fellow, with expressive hands and a mind that flashed like quicksilver. They'd spent many good nights drinking wine and arguing about Biblical literalism or lack thereof. Dear Moshe. He'd absolutely refused to accept that angels could have form at all.

When Aziraphale returns from woolgathering he sees the stranger staring down at the volume, rapt. "I wish I were fluent in Judeo-Arabic." 

"You might do better with the ones underneath," Aziraphale nudges, and the young man glances over to see what's now on the top of the stack: a first edition of En Découvrant l'Existence avec Husserl et Heidegger, by Levinas. And when he picks that up, he reveals the third book in the pile, which is Scanlon's What We Owe To Each Other. That one’s current, of course. A rare contemporary book amid the antiquities. For reasons he can’t explain, Aziraphale feels certain that this young man needs to read that book.

"Oh wow, that Levinas," the man says. “And I’ve been thinking about picking this one up…” He is smiling broadly as though he can't help himself. "Is this heaven?" He laughs a little, as if to show that he's joking.

"My little corner thereof, you might say." Aziraphale smiles back. "Would you care for a cup of tea, Mister--"

"Anagonye," the man says, extending a hand. His skin feels warm through the protective glove. "I don't want you to go to any trouble."

"None at all," Aziraphale assures him. "I was making some for myself anyway. Milk or sugar?"

"Just milk. Wait -- is it dairy milk?" He looks pained. "I hate to ask this, but do you know whether the cows were humanely treated?"

"I can offer almond milk if you prefer?"

Mr. Anagonye grimaces. "I don't know. I read something the other day about almond farming and water consumption. It’s a bad choice either way. I don’t know,” he frets aloud.

“Or you could just take it black,” Aziraphale suggests, and that seems to calm him.

"Thank you. I'm going to--" Mr. Anagonye gestures back at the two books now balanced on his lap.

"Indeed." Aziraphale makes his way to the back of the shop and fills the electric kettle. He could miracle a pair of teacups filled with perfect tea, of course, but there's something satisfying about doing it the way that humans do.

Crowley, curled up in a small wicker basket beside the radiator, raises his head inquisitively.

"We have a customer," Aziraphale tells Crowley. "Yes, I'm pleased about it. Don't give me that look! He's lovely. He knows how to treat books properly."

The snake's tongue tastes the air briefly, once, twice. Someone with supernatural hearing might have heard the snake very quietly hissing, "philosssssssopher."

"Yes, I think so. Academics aren't generally very well-paid, so I highly doubt he'll be in a position to want to buy anything." Aziraphale shudders lightly at the thought. "But he'll be content to read here all afternoon, I suspect."

The snake that is Crowley pillows his head on his coils and closes his golden eyes.

"And you'll be content to nap," Aziraphale says fondly, and runs his hand along Crowley's sleek warm scales before returning to tea preparations. "I'll wake you for supper."

As he putters with the tea leaves and the mugs, Aziraphale thinks about the books Mr. Anagonye is immersing in. The Scanlon book isn't particularly precious. Aziraphale could be persuaded to part with it, he decides, if Mr. Anagonye wants a souvenir. And truth be told, the Levinas isn't that rare. But the Maimonides volume -- that one, he will keep.


End file.
